


Synonymous with Outlaw

by Foxberry



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1860s, Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bandits & Outlaws, Bushranger AU, Bushranger!Jean, Colonial Times, Dapper!Marco, First Meetings, Fluff, Guns, M/M, Mutual Pining, SWO, Skinny Dipping, Undressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6188842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/pseuds/Foxberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Gentleman Jean', a kind and rugged bushranger, seeks justice for the actions of the police and finds himself curious of a strange man that stands up to him. </p><p>Jean had always found it easier to understand horses than men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Likes of Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonoclePony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/gifts).



> This is a commission for Lars, who entrusted me to write a Bushranger AU and break her with it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I have to resist the urge to smile at how unpleasant my face probably looks to the likes of him. My hair has grown uneven in the time my name became synonymous with outlaw. Bushy, blonde locks grow tall on top, kissed by the summer's sun, and dark short tuffs grow beneath it, marked months ago by a barber's careful blade. My beard barely grows to what one would call a man's length but it traces my jaw evenly all the same. It is enough to throw off a starer's eye with its dishevelment and saves the trouble of a clean cheek._

**\- Jean -**

The smell of dirt and horses clings to the air when we ride into the small town of Dauper. Bushland wood and iron rails skirt the buildings by the road, like they do in every small town that we come across on our journey west. This town is no different from the rest and the road through it is little more than dried mud, churned up by the hooves of a thousand horses and meanderings of hundreds of townsfolk.

After days in the bushland, catching the rare wallaby and roasting it over an open campfire, the steady structure of town feels welcoming again. I raise my eyes to the sky in thanks for the blessing the sight of civilisation gives me. Soon we will be able to bathe our skin and wash our clothes. The thought of that gives me hope of a soft bed to lay my head.

“Daydreaming again, are ya John?” Eren’s voice cuts through the chatter of townsfolk wandering past us. He smirks in my direction, his eyes glowing with cheek from under that broad brim of a hat he likes to wear. He seems as keen as ever to keep using my Christian name, no matter how many times I tell him otherwise.

I shake my head and resist the urge to ride off without him. Instead I set my pace and stare him down. As much as it pains me, I give into his teasing again. “You’re going to call me _Jean_ and this will be the last of it.”

Eren snorts and rolls his eyes. He passes a grin at a young girl staring up at him from the side of the road. Something about the dirt on his trousers and rips in his cotton shirt makes him bolder. “It does not make you sound any _fancier_.”

“It’s still a lot better than Erin. How in love with Ireland was your ma?” I take my turn to laugh, ignoring the stare of a strange disproving man leaning back in his rocking chair. So long as he does not recognise me under this hat, I can laugh as freely as I please.

Eren pulls a face at me but we both know there is humour underneath that glare he shoots at me. Once again I have hit a nerve. “Eren,” he retorts, trying to correct me, and sighs. He guides his horse around a puddle sitting stubbornly in our way.

I shrug and mumble, “Sounds the same to me.” We pass the bakery and a series of houses. The nervous tension that settles in my bones begins to work its way through me. Every time we come across a new town and a new bank, I can feel the rush coming. I bite down on my lip to silence it. It can wait until I hold my gun in my hand.

The Bank of Dauper rises up out of the ground pristine in its cream paint and iron detailing. Whatever money it holds, it seems to leak into its structure. It is sure that a building built to store money would be made from money too. I can feel my jaw tighten instinctively at the thought of the deeds and cash we will find inside. There are so many other places it could be than in that bank, safe for the hands of the Victorian elite.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Eren watching me. He thinks exactly as I do, that I know for sure. We have families and friends back home that need us and we are prepared to do whatever we can do to support them in the face of the cruelty and oppression of the Victorian police. My teeth grind at the thought of those yellow-bellied bastards, too drunk on their own power to protect the common people.

"In through the back?" he asks, guiding his mare towards the side street that leads out of sight. I follow without a second thought. While Eren is here to enact his revenge for the crimes put against him and his, he never falters to take the best course of action. Though his headstrong nature leads us into more than one gunfight knee-deep in a billabong, I will still follow him, as much as he annoys me.

I nod and repeat after him, "In through the back." The townsfolk have not heard of us yet. A small pair of outlaws making their way out from the goldfields near Bendigo does not draw much attention with legacies of Captain Thunderbolt still in people's minds. No paper has seen fit to name us yet, and I feel grateful that my father's name has not been dragged through the proverbial mud. The fine people of Victoria do not take kindly to the antics of the sons of foreign men.

The rear of the bank is sparse but for a loose rope tied to a post. I stroke down my horse's mane for reassurance. Shadow has a way of easing through wherever I lead him and he finds his way to the post with little guidance by my hand. 

I dismount and land ankle deep in the slowly drying mud left by the summer's flooding rains. Shadow holds me steady as I shake the dirt from my boots. It makes little difference from the smothering of a week's dirt from out by the river. These shoes were never made to be clean. I am almost certain of that.

Eren beside me lands with much less grace, though he never seems to mind. His boots are caked with mud, thick and dry enough to be confused for the clay of failing farms. His white blouse is worn away to the brown of the dirt and his trousers are still the faded dark green they have always been. Nothing has changed since he left his family's farm and joined me. He looks like he can walk back onto the nearest farm and begin work again at next dawn.

"You will want to clean yourself up." I offer, gesturing over his clothes. Not that mine are any better, but I will make my best effort to appear respectful within these fancy walls. I tuck my hat into the bag Shadow carries and ran my hand across his flank, reassuringly.

While Eren stares blankly at me, pulling a face of disapproval, I dust off the dirt on my arms and my legs. My shirt tucks in into my trousers without complaint and I look somewhat more respectable than I had moments before. I do not know why it became important to me, but it feels right to look the part when I am doing things for the right reasons.

Dusting his clothes off as I requested, Eren laughs. His chuckle seems to make these journeys lighter. None of the hold-ups or the hiding seems to phase him. Instead he keeps on smiling through the hardest of the nights. I think part of me hates him a little more for it.

Happy with himself, he shows off his clothes. They are still dirty, still common, but they admittedly look a little cleaner. "How's this, John?" he teases with his arms out. His voice is a little loud and I stare, concerned, towards the back door of the bank. No one stirs inside. We still have time.

I turn around, ignoring him, and pull out the jackets stored in Shadow’s bag. He nuzzles me and nibbles at my hair when I pull away. He always seems to miss me when I'm gone.

Eren's jacket hits him in square in the face, much to my amusement. He does not give me the satisfaction of reacting and instead shrugs into the sleeves. It looks good on him at least, better than the clothes he insists on wearing. I follow in suit, tugging down the sleeves and straightening it upon my shoulders.

With both of us looking more presentable, I feel ready to face another count of posh talkers that feel they deserve more of the earth than I have from a life working in it. None of them have seen the cruelty that my family has endured at the face of lying bastards that want nothing more than ensuring their own positions of power. I have no hard feelings against the folks that dwell within this building, even with their money, but they have not seen what I have seen, and I shall give them no ammunition against me.

Their faces are just as I suspect when we wander in and hold our guns up high. The look of revulsion is easy to spot when you have grown up with a life of it. They see your clothes, they hear your voice, and they know you're a different breed. You can see that you are only worth your weight in gold if you can carry it back from the fields near Bendigo.

Eren joins me, wandering around and pointing his gun at civilians backing away and pressing their backs against the bank walls. He does just as we have discussed: aim at their shoes, not at their faces. No man, or woman, wants to be shot. It does not matter where you point the gun, but it matters if you shoot it. For all our differences, neither of us wants to be a killer. It would make us no different than a common criminal, no different than the bastards that call themselves police.

"We are not here to harm you or your kin," I announce to the faces staring at us both. Some of the women look fearful and no doubt I look like a brigand ready to ruin their lives. "We are here to take what our families deserve for the crimes against them." I make sure not to gesture with my gun, but all the same I hold it tightly in my hand. All it takes is one brave soul trying to wrestle it from me before everything goes south.

Eren takes to telling them to sit down. He has a kindness in him that works with strangers. There's not an ounce of dishonesty hidden in those eyes of his. He has always been the useful one to deal with the general public. I can trust he will take care of them and I trust more in him than I trust myself with them. That is all that seems to matter.

While he watches their bonnets and their ties, I work my way through the bank to the vault and start shoving the bank notes in a cotton sack. It feels strange to hold so much money in my hand. Each note could be another piece to feed a family forced to live with rotting crops or driven to poverty through imprisonment of kin from lies of the so-called authorities.

"Do you like terrifying people?" An accusative voice asks from behind me. There is a shake to the man's voice. I turn around to face him and he raises his hands like I am pointing my gun at him. He could not have been any older than me, no more than his mid-twenties. "Do you enjoy this?"

I look him over from his dark hair and the fine felt of his bowler hat to the shine of his suit buttons and the gleam of his leather shoes. He's put together as finely as any of the other elite gentleman that can eat their food with silver. I can only imagine how filthy I look to him through those fine-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose of his clean-shaven face.

I do not know how he managed to get past Eren. His job is to stop them from leaving and alerting the authorities. The last thing we need is the good old Victorian police finding their way to Dauper. Somehow this man has gotten past Eren, and the first thing he wants to do is ask things of me. I will be sure to give Eren a talking to as soon as I see his rotten face.

Unsure of what it this man wants from me with his accusations, I stare him down. He wavers a little and takes an unsteady step forward. "What would make you think I enjoy it? Do I look like I'm smiling?" I ask bluntly. 

I have to resist the urge to smile at how unpleasant my face probably looks to the likes of him. My hair has grown uneven in the time my name became synonymous with outlaw. Bushy, blonde locks grow tall on top, kissed by the summer's sun, and dark short tuffs grow beneath it, marked months ago by a barber's careful blade. My beard barely grows to what one would call a man's length but it traces my jaw evenly all the same. It is enough to throw off a starer's eye with its dishevelment and saves the trouble of a clean cheek.

He eyes me uncertainly then. Somehow the thought of my infamy has not caught onto the gears turning in his brain. I can see it working across his face with a moment. It tinges his cheeks pink and turns his knuckles white when he closes them. We stand both aware of his reaction and it shows in the tension of his shoulders. "There are women and children out there. If you're planning on hurting them--"

"Do not dare to make assumptions of my character." It comes through my teeth like a growl. I do not expect it to sound so guttural. It feels wrong as soon as it has left my lips that I press them together to stop further words from leaking through. I am not sure why I am so ashamed by reaction.

The man relaxes and evens his weight between his feet. His sure footing seems to show my words did not set terror in his veins. I do not feel the least bit disappointed by this. His chest puffs with air to ask me another of his questions. "What could be so important to steal from innocent people?"

The words hit me sharply, likely somewhere between the ribs on my side. I turn back to the money, shovelling more of it into the bag in the hope he will walk away. Yet I still answer him impulsively, trying to make my case. "This money is made off the backs of people like me. We pay our deeds and our taxes and get hauled away on false accusations and lies so our livelihoods wither into dust." I take a deep breath and let my voice settle from the rage that rattles within it. "We are owed this, and whatever actions I take to sully my name will only ensure our families are fed."

The man does not answer. He breathes quietly behind my back as if he is watching me for his moment to run away. Moments of silence pass before he leaves the room, steps as careful as I were a wild horse that needed to be broken. I wonder when it was that I became so frightening. Perhaps one day I will find out or perhaps I will never have the privilege.

Money in my bag, I take to the main room. Eren is perched on the counter, weighing the gun in his hand while he discusses the most annoying of bird calls with two children dressed like they have just returned from mass. Everyone in the room is dressed so finely that I feel so dirty amongst them, but I know my intentions, my purposes, are higher and brighter than any of theirs could hope to be.

"Are we set?" Eren nods towards the cotton bag in my hand. It does not feel as heavy as I hoped but I nod back to him in kind. He seems relatively pleased and rather relieved to be free of his minding duties. Eren enjoys the life of travelling and taking money to give to those in need, but the actions of holding people, preventing them from leaving, always sit uncomfortably with him.

I survey the witnesses around us. They are more relaxed than when I had left, thanks to Eren no doubt. They appear bored, as ready for us to leave as we are. My eyes catch the gaze of the man in the bowler hat. He crouches on the floor with his knees up to his chin. He looks strangely comical sitting on the floor like a common man despite what his garb would suggest of his character. Perhaps I have judged him too harshly.

I nudge Eren in the ribs when he jumps down from his perch. He scowls at me in the way he does when company is watching. As much as he tries, he can never hide his true face. It makes our partnership remarkably simple. "Why did you let this one through?" I glance at the man in the floor, sure not to point him out obviously.

Eren looks up at me with a tilt to his head. His gun sits firmly in his hand. "Let what guy through?" He relaxes his shoulders and looks calmly through the crowd with the crease of worry running across his forehead. When his gaze reaches the man who confronted me, I nudge him in the side. Eren nods slowly in understanding. "That one?"

I pretend to be checking the weight of the bag and gesture in rough directions with my gun in hand, pointed safely to the floor. It is incredibly rare for anyone to make it past Eren's gaze. After all these months he has always been able to control a small crowd on his own, even if it means entertaining them with horse tricks and bird calls. This is likely the first time Eren has even let anyone get the better of him and slip on by.

Eren shrugs. "He does not look that harmful." He follows my charade by scratching at his eye, pulling a face, and looking up at the detailing of the ceiling. I am always thankful when he catches onto my ruses. "What did he do? Flirt with you?"

I growl at him under my breath. Ever since I confided in Eren, he has been sure to worm it in as some kind of jest, used whenever it seems necessarily for him to mock me. It made my own preferences seem normal and less unsightly whenever he feels the need to tease me about men the same way he teases me about women. Now is not the time and I bark at him as quietly as I can manage. "What if he had a gun?"

"You have a gun." Eren points out, quite correctly. His blunt tone half-reassures me that he trusts me enough on my own to take care of myself, all the while making the point that I should be able to handle an attractive man in a bowler hat. "Besides, I would have thought he would be your... type. With your inclinations."

I grit my teeth this time. I refuse to give into his banter in front of this crowd. He is not wrong in his implications, and there is nothing I can do, not here, not now, to argue against any face or point he makes my way. I cannot deny that the man in the bowler hat, probably born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a name to match, is attractive to me. His insistence on speaking to me, alone, with all the same sense of righteous that I feel hit me somewhere and made a mark. I cannot stop myself from looking in his direction to see if he is still there.

I clear my throat and give the nod I give Eren before we prepare to leave. Each time I feel it necessary to make ourselves clear and once I again I repeat our pattern.

"This money we are taking is not for ourselves," I announce to the crowd. Their whispers of disbelief and loud sighs spread among them like a bushfire, crackling through the undergrowth of my speech. They can speak as badly as they want of me but I will still persist. This is my purpose and none of their whisperings can take this from me. "This is for the people wronged by the lazy, lying scoundrels you call police. The only law that they uphold is the one that greases their palms and fills their bellies with wine." The growl comes out in my voice again. A hush passes through them, quicker than any of their whispers.

"Is that why you call yourself a Gentleman? Everyone seems to be calling you ‘Gentleman Jean’." The man's voice rips through the air like another accusation. This time his voice sounds curious, despite how rushed and loud it is to break through the mumblings of his fellow civilians. There is something brave in speaking up in a crowd, something brave in questioning a man holding him captive with a gun in his hand.

Eren looks to me with puzzled eyes and drawn brows. He leans to whisper, "What were you both doing back there?" His eyebrow raises at me and I suddenly feel judged by his own sense of morals. He surprises me, however, by his next words and relieves the tightness in my chest, "Getting cosy, close, finding yourself a bushbuddy." He smirks in the corner of his lips so no one but me can see it. Sometimes I wish I could shove his face into dirt, but I resist the urge, despite how vivid the image is in my mind and how wonderful it would feel.

"You let him through. You did not do your job," I angrily whispered back at him. Hearing my words, Eren stands firm, putting on the act of a man ready and willing to do harm if need be. Neither of us would make that move unless we had to. That we could at least trust in.

I stand beside him, grabbing onto my trouser pockets for show. For that is what most of this is, show. It is a presentation, an act, putting on masks to let the public know we mean business, because any one of these men, or even the women or the children, could rightly shoot us and take no blame. If they love us, we are safe, but only if they love us.

I take a deep breath and find the man's eyes looking at mine. They are a deep brown and see the world with an idealism that makes them shine. I almost feel sorry for him, that he could see the world so falsely. "I have never called myself a gentleman, but if I am what passes for one then I feel afraid for what has become of men." I laugh and the crowd chuckles shyly along with me. "Do you consider yourself a gentleman?" I gesture out at his clothes, throwing the question back at him. He seems taken aback but rises to his feet. His glasses wobble on his nose until he pushes them back up and assesses me again.

"A gentleman has decorum," he begins to argue, bobbing his head as he thinks of his answer. He is likely nervous from the array of eyes that now focus on him. I doubt he has ever spoken this publicly in his life. His voice is too soft for it. "He assures the safety of others and does not scare them or hold them prisoner."

I sigh and smile at the floorboards creaking at my feet. "Or do you mean a gentleman is a man that has the world set out before him? Who wears nice clothes? Who dresses for the company of others and treats them kindly if only it does him service?" I gesture at his own attire and it almost feels cruel. Yet I feel we both know that he is by far the better gentleman than I, but I have never once claimed to be anything but what I am: the son of a migrant's widow.

He sputters his words and struggles to find an answer. I speak over his sounds to curtail his public humiliation. "It seems a gentleman treats people decently and does not will or impart harm." I make a show of walking past them all. Their heads lower and their gazes turn away from mine. They know that I have their lives in my hands. "Have I hurt any of you here?" The question resonates from the floor to the rafters and silence answers it.

A thought occurs to me and I approach the man in the bowler hat. He flinches instinctively. The quickness in my steps seems to have posed a threat to him. I wonder once again when I became so terrifying. I will never want to hurt this man if I can help it. "You can write, correct?"

His eyes widen and he looks at me like I have asked him to tie up his fellow man. "Yes," he squeaks and adjust his glasses. "I have excellent penmanship." His assertion comes through stronger and more assertive than his ‘yes’.

I point him towards the desk in the other room. He takes the hint and marches on through. I stand firm as he walks past me. His shoulders hunch him and his fingers fiddle like I have sent him to his execution. I exchange a worried look with Eren but he nods towards the room with a muted smile. He trusts me with this at least. That I can be thankful for.

"What is your name?" I ask bluntly. I believe in knowing the man who I will be dealing with, even if he is here against his will. I mean him no unkindness but his manner upsets the others and I cannot resist the opportunity to make use of him. The largest part of me, that I can never admit to Eren, wants him to believe in my purpose as much as I do.

Begrudgingly he takes a seat at the bureau, adjusting himself into position the way I may take care upon a horse. He lays his hands upon the mahogany edge and grips it tightly before he answers, "My name is Marco Bodt." His head turns slowly in my direction, searching for my approval and likely wondering if I am pleased by this knowledge he has bestowed upon me.

I nod and approach him slowly. He immediately turns back to the detailing in the bureau and works his fingertips across them. He is surprisingly delicate with it. I wonder if he is tracing out the thoughts in his mind or waiting for his moment to run from me. Despite my presence beside him, he continues and asks, "Why do you want to know my name?" It sounds softer, more curious, musing over my motives. My tongue catches in my mouth.

Pulling a chair up beside him, I try to work out an answer that will be deemed satisfactory. The chair squeaks when I sit beside him but it does not break the awkward silence that I have let drag on between us. I sigh to release the tension in my chest. It does not seem to help. I decide to be honest with him. "I believe in knowing who I am working with."

"I am not working with you," Marco retorts, drawing his eyebrows into a line behind his glasses. He adjusts them and frowns at the honesty he sees on my face. He is not impressed with my answer and I cannot blame him for his misgivings. I am an outlaw, bearded and dirty, dressed like a man about to steal a town's fortune. He has every reason to distrust me, but yet I find myself wanting him to. He is still here, sitting and waiting for me to speak. I am not deserving of such patience.

I grit my teeth and bide my time to answer. If he were anyone else, I might have drawn my gun and told him to grab out a pen and paper and start writing. Instead I wait for his features to soften and catch my gaze working across his cheekbones. They catch the light streaming in through the curtains and make the air in the room just that little bit harder to breathe. I am certain he does not know of the way he fascinates me.

Rather than answering, I take to opening the drawers of the bureau and drop ink, pen and paper before his hands. He follows my silent instructions and picks up the pen. There is not a moment's hesitation in his movements and I am certain then that he fears me. Though I cannot see a sliver of it in his eyes.

"You are going to write a letter for me." My voice comes through my lips soft, trying not to command what I need from him while balancing it with the kindness I try to possess. There is no purpose in scaring people and forcing them against their will, if it means they will turn against you at any chance they get. If I want people to understand his plight, I need to be kind. With Marco, I want to be kind.

Marco looks at me with a sense of apprehension and confusion. "A letter?" His tone seems to drop from the judgement it held before. He genuinely seems curious without the frustration and anger. "Why do you need me to write a letter?"

I look away from him and growl quietly to myself. I was not privileged enough to have had more than a few years of education. While I am capable of understanding a few of the words the newspapers print, I never learned the basics of literacy. "I did not have the privilege of an education."

Marco opens his mouth while his eyebrows furrow. Only silence escapes it as it opens and closes when the understanding hits him. "Did you not attend a school?" He quietly places the pen down to the bureau and lets it roll towards the paper. His shoulders rise and his hands draw close to his chest when he realises what he said.

It is nothing different than how the rest of the privileged class respond. Though where normally I would find the derision at my common, uneducated status, Marco looks genuinely concerned at his question of honest surprise. I laugh quietly and ease his concerns, "I was working the gold diggings as soon as I could hold a shovel. I imagine you were learning how to hold money."

His eyes grow wide with surprise and immediately narrow at my insult. It is amusing to see the decorum in his body crack and see how easily he responds when prodded. I think I might like him just that little bit more.

"I will have you know-" He begins, moving suddenly with a gesture of his hands. He looks positively spirited in his movement. 

"I believe I have hit you somewhere soft, Bodt," I interject and jab him playfully in the shoulder. He freezes at the sight of the gun still in my hand and remembers where he is. He shrinks back into his stiff position as a man in custody. For a moment there he forgot I am an outlaw.

In the end people are all the same, just as brazen, just as prideful, and just as easy to spur into action with the right words. Marco is no different than I am. Though I doubt he will see it the same as I.

His eyes blinks several times before he speaks. I imagine it takes a great deal of swallowing to take down that pride to digest it. Whether he means to be so particular is another question, for men are what they are through the making of their birth and circumstance. We cannot be more different from each other in that respect.

His hand picks up the pen again. "What would you have me write?" He peers down at the paper determined, hand gripping the pen tightly like he might lose his own grip on reality should he drop it. "Where should I start?"

"Dear Sir," I begin dictating. He writes the words without question, as diligently as if he were to be paid. He is not wrong about his penmanship. His care over the letters makes my words look as fine as the paper and pen he is writing with. Perhaps they will take heed to read this letter with more care than the last. "I mean no disrespect writing these lines to you wherein I state the facts of the case against A. Kirschtein."

Marco stops writing to look me in the face. He tries to reads me as I read him. A moment passes between us and he says not a word in correction or judgement. He turns back to the page and bites his lip. I imagine I surprised him with these words.

"I do not believe justice may exist without the establishment of truth where the police would have you believe false accusations they fabricate despite their positions and I do not wish to complain of my peculiar circumstances fallen upon me or mine but blame on my actions would not be so easily placed if you knew of the persecution against me." I take a deep breath and let the words settle to the page through Marco's hand. He continues writing, not a word lost from my long rambling speech. I am impressed by his persistence and his attention to take all of my words and etch them into paper. I sit mesmerised by his cursive on the page. I should hope to have his skill if life were to treat me so kind.

I find Marco's face staring at me after a long silent pause. He places his pen down and truly looks over me. "You do not do this for the money?" Genuinely surprised, he reviews the calluses on my hands and the sun's touch on my cheeks. I feel exposed under his gaze. It is not unkind in the way it searches for further understanding. I do not understand what it is he is searching for.

I shake my head and place my gun on the bureau in front of him. It is a small display of power and trust all at once, and to my surprise Marco does not flinch. "The money pays the way for the people done harm." I shuffle uncomfortably in the chair and rest a hand on the bureau for support. Few have sort to ask my reasoning. "Their crops wither, their children starve, and unborn babes stand less chance at life when they take my fellow men away in chains."

Marco's hand reaches out for mine. It brushes by my fingers curiously, as if testing my presence was here. I check the room around us and find it, quite obviously, empty. My heart thumps at the thought of how intimate this moment has been. I reach out for his fingers in kind and to my surprise, he does not shy away. I think I might lose consciousness if I continue to lose my breath.

"You actually care..." he says aloud as if the thought just occurs to him. It is neither surprised or derisive in its tone but ponderous. He lifts my hand in his with a curious gaze. Callused and brown from years of work in the yards under the beating sun has aged my hands, hardened them like leather. His hands brush across mine in the way I imagine silk must do, light and soft, caressing with every turn over my hands he seems fit to undertake. I doubt if he has ever seen a hard day's work in his life, if the sun has ever kissed his face like it has mine.

I nervously laugh as I watch him continue unabashedly touching across my skin, searching up my own in fixated concentration. The letter lies by him, willingly forgotten. "Did you expect a brigand to be without a heart?" The chuckle that follows shakes as it leaves me. If only Eren could see me now, an outlaw broken by his own curiosity.

Marco's laugh sets my heart racing faster than I expected. The nervous wait to understand it sits uncomfortably in my veins. I forget so very briefly that were are not the only ones in this bank. Yet despite the hope that sits in my chest, I feel the worry that my preferences shall work against me, make me weak to folly where I should be focussed. Were I to throw caution to the wind, I would do it now.

His fingers rub over my calluses from the years of labouring like I am nothing more than a work of art he is surveying. If I had the choice I would let him survey whatever part of me he wished. Even my eyes are drawn to the way his lips part when he thinks and close when the finds his answer. He speaks casually to me then, as if my gun was not sitting on the bureau beside him. "I have always wondered what it would be like..." He trails off and stares up into my eyes with those dark brown eyes of his. Neither of us say more than his implications do in the silence he leaves. That is more than enough for me.

Letting my curiosity take the better of me, I reach up to touch his face. I worry my other hand feels rough and foul against his skin, that he might shrink away from me like a nervous mare. Despite my worries, he permits me and closes his eyes, gripping lightly onto my hand in his. When he opens his eyes again, it feels like he might see through me, into me, like he can see my path ahead of me before I have begun it. I do not know if I can take the chance to look away.

"John, we have got the--" Eren calls out, walking into the room with a heavy step. He stops immediately when he sees me and breaks the moment with a loud clearing of his throat, nodding as if he finally understands everything. I will never hear the end of this for as long as he can stand to be around me. "So this is why you were taking so long."

I pull my hands to my sides and stand. My hand reaches for my gun and draws it to my side. Eren never barges into a room without reason. His eyes look worried. His face says everything before his lips even move.

"We have got to go." Eren darts his eyes between Marco and me and nods towards the exit. That is my cue to leave. I dallied too long and the police have caught up to us. We need to leave now if we have any chance of heading west and losing them. Eren does not wait for me before he takes off running to the horses.

I reach across Marco for the letter and fold it up in my hands. They feel so oddly rough upon the paper now that I have touched Marco's skin. "I will take this. I will write another letter another time." It tucks roughly into the pocket of my jacket. While I may never use the letter as it was intended, I suspect I will keep it for the good penmanship on the page.

Marco opens his mouth to speak but only a breath escapes. He knows no more what to say than I do. Our moment, our exchange, was peculiar to both of us, but there seems no sense in leaving any part of me with him. He would become another name on my list of injustices.

We walk out to the main room and part ways. He returns to the group and perhaps for his own pride or for mine he acts shaken and scared, finally realised from his captivity. Part of me entertains the idea for a second that he truly feels that way. Thankfully his eyes, still softened on my features, tell the truth to me across the room.

The dirt outside feels foreign beneath my feet when I step out to Shadow's side. He greets me with a nibble to my hair and I am reminded of the days of campfires and bushes ahead. It is not like this every time I leave. There is a sense of something new, of accomplishment and purpose. Leaving now there is a sense of something missing, something unexplored. It rests uncomfortably within me.

"What are you doing, Jean?" Eren using my name of choice immediately draws my attention. He is serious, already upon his horse and waiting impatiently to ride off west. "The sooner we go, the sooner we leave them behind."

"We leave them behind," I echo to Shadow. He pays no mind to my words and nuzzles at my cheek. I wonder what would happen when the police find this bank, whether they would question the time I spent with Marco, whether they would throw him in with all the others before him. "We cannot leave him behind!"

I never ask Eren for much beyond a second helping of damper or the last drop from the waterskin. This is something I need. I need to be assured that Marco will be safe from the corruptive, manipulative means of the police. Not even his status may save him. I am not ready to take that risk.

He grits his teeth, just as unpleased with my assertion as I expected he would be. "How do you propose we take him with us with only two horses? We will barely get half a day's ride if we tire ours out." He sees the desperation in my wordless plea but it does not break him down. He is determined as ever to not be caught if he can help it. He is seconds away from leaving me behind; I can see it.

"We will just borrow a horse," I suggest, peering into the bank with the hopes that Marco can read my mind. "I grab him and you find a horse." I gesture wildly in the air and rush back into the bank. I hear the sound of Eren cursing about my mother followed by hooves on gravel. Once again I find myself counting upon him and tying another invisible knot to my finger to pay him back the kindness.

Inside the townsfolk are gathered to their feet and huddle together to wait patiently for the all clear. My sudden appearance provokes a shriek from one startled women and a gasp from a small boy. Marco looks just as perplexed to see me back. His face, unlike the rest, appears more at peace to see me again. I do not hesitate to make my motives clear. "You!" I point at him. I make sure my voice sounds menacing, just as they will expect me to be. The more I sound a criminal, the more innocent Marco will be. "You know too much. Outside!"

I cringe at the expression that comes across Marco's face. His hope disappears down to the shaking in his legs when he walks past me and out the door. I promise myself I will make everything clear once they are out of earshot, once I can be sure Marco's reputation would be preserved. "If any of you should seek to follow us, be warned that I do not take kindly to being hunted like a dog." Their silence gives me all the assurance I need to run back outside.

I felt the sickly wash of unpleasant, warm regret prickle across my skin when I cannot see Marco outside. The thought I destroyed whatever it is I think we have races through my mind. There are so many other things I could have said. I could have let it all be.

Marco's voice draws me from my concerns with a quiet "I know too much?" He waits by the beam of the awning, leaning against it patiently. A hint of hurt tints his voice and I immediately regret my choice of words.

"If they find you were in that room with me, they will..." I start and trail off, letting my gaze drop with shame. I make my way to Shadow's side and run my hand across his flank. Whatever happens it is reassuring to the both of us. Horses are more predictable than people. 

I pull myself up into the saddle and stare down at the assessing gaze Marco throws at me. I offered the very little I could, "Come with us."

Once again he parts his lips, gazes around for answers, and presses them together when a thought enters his mind. "You'd honestly take me with you?" I gulp at how doubtful and curious and hopeful it sounds all at once. Perhaps I have misjudged him after all.

The sound of hooves interrupts us. Eren returns on his mare, pulling another black waler horse alongside him. He appears positively pleased with himself. "I found this one by one of the richer houses." Eren laughs and gently tugs forward the black mare's reins. He throws them in Marco's direction, who catches it clumsily in his surprise. "I hope you know how to ride because we have got a long way to go."

Marco stares directly up at me with a mixture of wonder and puzzlement. "You found me a horse?" He raises his hand up to her shoulder, letting her become familiar with him, with the same care he had taken with me. His touch, it seems, is always a gentle one.

"The police will find us if we do not leave now." He turns his horse around and takes off down the street, waiting further out in its middle as a outlook. His hand signals the all clear.

I gesture for Marco to mount the horse we borrowed for him. Hesitant, he climbs up into the saddle and takes the reins with nervous hands. I move up beside him and reach out my hand for his. "We do not have much time, Marco." His name feels foreign in my mouth. It seems to taste of sweetness and hope and gentle touches.

He grabs onto my hand tightly, checking my eyes to see if I am an honest man. I hope he wants to be taken astray as much as I want to lead him there. His fingers squeeze my hand in his. "Are you sure you want me to come with you?"

I gulp, overwhelmed by his uncertainty. I hoped he would taken off with me at the first word. "As sure as I can be." I squeeze back and check on Eren with a glance. His impatience was already showing in his shoulders. "You are going to write a letter for me."

Marco smiles a genuine smile, not one pressed by time or nervousness. "Is that the only reason you're taking me with you?" He lets go of my hand, takes the reins, and sets off towards Eren.

I follow in pursuit, ignoring the chiding of Eren yelling that we had taken too long. We race through the town, kicking up dirt in our way and thundering past townsfolk calmly walking through town. Marco peers back to laugh at me trailing behind him. Eren ahead of him shakes his head and takes the lead, veering off to a side road that leads down the hillside to a wide expanse of bushland that lies below the town.

Out of the sight of the town, Marco slows to join my pace. He adjusts his glasses with an amused smile on his face. I do not hesitate to insist, "It's for your safety." I mean every word of it. Having Marco with us sets me more at ease than leaving him behind to never see him again. There is no telling what would happen to him otherwise.

"So you want to make sure I'm safe?" Marco tries to tease me. There is too much weight in his words to pass them over for anything less than hopeful. He nudges his mare closer to Shadow to watch my response. We both slow our pace when we reach the edge of the bushland. 

I level my eyes with his. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who just ran away with a stranger." His lips silently open and close again. Determined to metaphorically knock him from his horse, I reach across to cup his face and rub my thumb across his lips. When he lets my hand touch his face again, unable to look away, I know that I have made the right decision.

"I guess you could say I actually care,” I whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this and want to share it on Tumblr, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/140672743487/synonymous-with-outlaw).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	2. One of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The words ‘one of us’ echo in my mind. Jean considers me part of their gang, a bushranger for all intents and purposes. I try to hide my surprise. For as much as I had considered the possibilities that would unfold at this eloping, I had not considered it would make me a bushranger too. I blink several times at the thought of myself as an outlaw. It is too preposterous to voice my amusement. I let it settle to the back of my mind._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up loving this AU so much that I had see where this went.

**\- Marco -**

Silver gum trees reach up to the sky around us when we dash down a narrow trail. Their bark, streaked of white and grey and brown, mark their presence amongst the dash of green from their leaves and the huddled masses of spindly grass at their roots. Through my glasses I can see the faintest details of squiggly trails running up the pale and oddly smooth surface of their bark. As much as I am told that these are trees, they seem so strange at close distance.

Surrounded by them, we make camp in a clearing by the creek and I swear my heart rate finally slows with us. I was almost sure it would never stop beating in time with the horse’s hooves, not after the man called Jean had touched my face like that. I bite my lip as I remember the way he casually thumbed over my lips like he thought my face were made of paint, smearing across whatever it was that he saw there. I do not know what to make of it, or of him, really.

His hands are rough, callused, and brown from what I assume is the result of weeks or even years of hard labour. Against my lips, I could feel all of that with the warm in his body and the care in his motion. I wonder briefly if skin melts beneath skin and whether the rest of him feels the same.

His frame moves with the gait of a man who spends his life walking, running, making his way through the world with a quick step out of harm’s way. Even his riding seems so lively and spirited when I consider how proper I have been taught. He takes to riding like a man born to it. The horse that bears him moves to his every whim, just as limber and spritely, as if another part of him, if I am to describe it accurately.

“If you stare too long, you will find yourself at the mercy of a bunyip,” Eren’s voice cuts through the brush and interrupts my daydream. I dismiss it from my mind to ensure he can not see its remnants in my features. I shrug my shoulders without a second thought and frown at how much his words jolted me. I will not permit my face to show my shame.

I realise he uses a strange word I do not remember ever hearing. Perhaps it is one of those bushranger words that their kind take to using. I tense my back, adjust my glasses on my nose, and prepare myself for his jest at my expense. I imagine he finds it amusing to tease me. With Jean he seems to play back and forth with words as their weapons. It is oddly cruel to my eye but their amusement at it perplexes me. Neither of them seem to bat an eye or take offence. I could not see such a practice lasting long within the social circles of my childhood. Perhaps this is Eren’s strange way of trying to include me.

I open my mouth with caution, miming words that pass through my mind. I settle on repeating the word back to him. “A bunyip?” It sounds odd to fall from my tongue. He bears no mind to how different it sounds from me. I thank the Lord that he may have that kindness in him.

Self-conscious at how I appear to this complete stranger who I now call company, I dismount my borrowed horse slowly. My shoes kick up the dirt when they hit the ground and I hope desperately to hold onto any grace still left in me despite the shaking in my hands. He pays no mind to it. The weight of criticism that I feel is more imagined and ingrained I realise, and I question the conditioning that lingers in my bones.

Eren hums back at me, dismounting his horse with a casual ease. His eyes watch Jean as I do. Both of us join in observing Jean’s own dismount and the subsequent attention he gives the horse he calls Shadow. Eren takes off his hat and presses it against his chest. The gesture does not go unnoticed. I assume he is trying to make this stage for his theatrics.

“They tell tales of men lost in the bush,” he begins with the same air as the men that tell of lost ships. I have heard many a tale in my time of foolish men telling of lost wives and lost treasures, but they are of no comparison to a man who mourns a ship. He speaks grandly, like the tale occurred long ago in a foreign land more foreign than this one.

“No one truly knows what they look like, but you hear the stories. A water spirit say some, yet they are never consistent with their features.” He turns a sly eye to me, a hint of an amused smile on his lips. “They say it has claws, or a horse-like tail, or even a head like a crocodile, and grows to 11 paces long.” He is trying to toy with me for his own amusement, but this is not the first that I have heard tell of strange creatures in these parts. They say there are screams in the night, shuddering breaths of creatures that watch you in the dark, and that all of them are ready with their claws. I can feel a tingling on my neck at the thought of how many creatures lay out in the bushland.

My head turns to Jean, more instinct than thought, searching for his response as a kind of reassurance. It feels peculiar to say the least, that I should find that safety in him with how little I know. When I find his eyes meeting mine, despite Shadow’s nudging seeking the attention of his hands, I feel at ease in this unfamiliar world I find myself in.

He becomes aware of Eren’s ramblings, his sly companion continuing to list an array of details of this bunyip creature. He and I lock eyes and I watch as a wave of understanding comes over him when he hears Eren’s speech. It is the words that he sees and not me in that moment. I find myself shamefully invisible to the hint of yellow in his eyes.

Jean saunters over with raised eyebrows and his thumbs in his pockets. His gaze turns to Eren and when he stands beside me, I feel my shoulders relax, unaware they had been tense in the first place. “Is this another one of your stories?” His knuckles strike Eren’s shoulder with a firm thwack. The sudden violence of it, the casual nature to the action, sets a tension through my body. Despite my discomfort, neither of them acknowledge the punch as anything more than an alternative handshake. Wonders never cease.

“Stories?” I ask, cringing at the way I repeat the words they throw out into the air like an impotent child grasping for butterflies. I am as lost here for words as I am lost in my surroundings. Pictures drawn by the skilled hands of explorers and biologists alike bear no comparison to the fresh smell of the gum trees and the rushing sound of the river. Stories are all I have ever had to give a glimpse into this peculiar place.

Jean claps a hand to my shoulder and sends a shock down my spine. His gesture is heavy-handed and exceptionally less comforting than he likely expects it to be. I lean into his touch all the same. “He plays games with new folk. Tells them tall tales.” His hand rubs across my shoulder reassuringly.

Huffing and placing his hat back onto his head in his defeat, Eren pointedly asserts, “You cannot say stories lack some truth to them.” His bows his head in sincere apology before turning his eyes to Jean to challenge him. I expect this will not be the last time Eren’s sense of humour shall be directed my way.

Jean runs his hand down my arm, a calming gesture for both him and myself it seems. I suspect he does not feel the same thrill shiver through him. Instead, he answers Eren as if the gesture is more from instinct than from thought. “If they had truth in them, it is not coming from your mouth. Let Marco be.” I am pleased that there is no threat in his words.

Eren’s gaze passes to me with an understanding smile. It seems kinder the more I pay attention to his face. “Pardon me for upsetting your sensibilities.” Where I expect Jean to rebuke or move, he does not. None of Eren’s words phase him.

“He is one of us now.” Jean nods slowly, intentionally, with his eyes not leaving Eren’s face. I cannot quite see the look he takes but I imagine it must be something to behold by the solemn nodding Eren returns.

The words ‘one of us’ echo in my mind. Jean considers me part of their gang, a bushranger for all intents and purposes. I try to hide my surprise. For as much as I had considered the possibilities that would unfold at this eloping, I had not considered it would make me a bushranger too. I blink several times at the thought of myself as an outlaw. It is too preposterous to voice my amusement. I let it settle to the back of my mind.

“Well if he is, he will be coming with me for firewood.” Eren tugs the cuffs off his ratty shirt up his arms. Normally I would have considered such a gesture a threat, having mostly seen it used by men fighting in the alleys of Melbourne “Unless you have an objection?”

It takes me a moment to realise his question is directed at me. His eyes are too busy with the folding of his shirt. There is a sense of concentration in his tight smile. Whatever wheels work within the inners of his mind show in the very details of his face. It had been the same in that bank; his features never concealed his truth. It is comforting to know where I sit with him by the very look on his face. Eren nods towards the bush and wanders off down a trail before I can object to his impatience.

I search for Jean’s reaction, appealing in a strange way for his approval. My glasses catch the silver of light raining through the trees when I meet his eye and as I adjust them, he nods reassuringly. My chest tightens at the smile he sends my way. “His teeth are blunt.”

His grin grows wider at the way my features distort in displeased annoyance. I wonder if I am merely seeing the sunlight in the lenses of my glasses or if I will be sure I can see it if I stare longer. I adjust my glasses and watch the glint disappear from my vision. The sparkle is still there. Aware of my lack of manners, I swiftly move my gaze to the ground and hope it missed his notice.

"I do not expect he will be biting me," I answer with a rush of air from my lungs. While Eren's teeth have never concerned me, I find myself wondering what Jean's teeth feel like against skin and whether his lips are rough like his hands. I gulp away the image in my mind and find Jean still keenly looking my way. "Unless there is more to you bushrangers than I know? I barely know your world. You may like biting innocents."

Jean hums with a devilish smile. With the beard lining his jaw and his hair still a mess, he looks positively dishevelled, ready to see to the countless nefarious plans I imagine his mind possesses. He bites his teeth together for my benefit. I can scarcely hear the sound with the whistling of birds in my ears, but I know it is there. "I am certain you will find out how we are soon enough."

My shoulders tense and my heart starts racing again. "I suppose that is all there is to it. I must be patient to learn more." I tilt my head, peering over him in the same curiosity I found in him when we met. I do not understand how he manages to look so calm as he says such things. Every one of his words drips with the musings of humour. If I were any less sure of his character, I might think he would lead me astray, more so than he already has, but my upbringing rails against this feeling rising in my chest to give myself over to his wildness.

I free myself from his hypnotising gaze with a curt nod. His face puzzles over me, perhaps wondering at the formalities I find myself too rigid or perhaps stubborn to let go of. It has been mere hours since I left the town behind. The swell of an insect chorus rises in the air as a persistent reminder that I am far from home, far from the comforts of a warm bed and clean clothes.

Eren waits for me down the rocky path into the thick of the trees. He leans his back against a particularly grey tree with his hat tilted down across his brow. Instinctively, I press my hands to my pockets, expecting him to bail me up. I have lived so long expecting to have things stolen of me that it remains difficult to think of Eren beyond his life as a thief. The guilt of it sits uncomfortably in my stomach.

There appears to be a calm to his face when I approach. My delay barely presents an annoyance to him, much to my relief. He blinks slowly and tilts his chin up to watch my face before shrugging away whatever thought had paused in his mind.

Eren holds a certain of urgency and calmness in every step of his walk. Where it seems he can wait without complaint for Jean, or myself apparently, his need to keep moving runs through his veins to the fiddling of his fingers or the way his shoes dig into the soil. I wonder how he manages to look so calm in front of crowds so assured that he means them harm. Not one ounce of him appears to be capable of real harm, but perhaps I have let my guard down too readily.

His hands delve into his pockets as if he can hear my thoughts. He leads the way with a nod of his head and the meandering way he takes a turn to lead us further down the trail. Ferns grow at its edge, reaching out to stroke at our legs as we make our way past. Their brushing makes more sound than either of us in the quiet of the bush. Any man used to the sounds of the city, of people and cars and busy life, would no doubt be driven made by the absence of it here.

"Where are we going for firewood? If you do not mind me asking..." I try to break the silence with the awkwardness of my question. I regret it immediately. I could not be further from home where we are now, walking under the canopy of gum trees. Everything here is familiar to Eren but I still find them so unfamiliar and foreign from the oaks and elms of England.

I hunch my shoulders and rush more words from my mouth like an embarrassed child, "I have never collected firewood before. I am somewhat out of my depth." Sheepishly, I stare at the back of his neck. His hair is long and shaggy, growing as far as the nape of his neck, much longer than I imagine Jean's has ever been, and certainly much longer than I could ever let mine be.

Stretching his arms up and over his head, he casually answers, "There is no lie to that." Casting me a glance, he makes an example of himself and relaxes from his stretch to reach for a fallen branch by his feet. Thin and still covered with green leaves, it is a far cry from the firewood of my youth. I doubt a fire could be made with such kindling. "This thing here..." He holds it up and catches my complete attention. "Is what we like to call a branch. One generally sets fire to it for the purposes of warmth and the inconsolable need to set things on fire."

His tone is flat, almost informative, and oddly serious while he speaks such ludicrous things. I stare bewildered by his apparent need to explain this all to me. I think he might be playing with me again but his demeanour is most serious. I do not know how else to respond than the indignation that he might consider me that lacking in common sense. "Well, of course? I have seen a fire set before."

Eren raises a brow and takes a breath to dismiss his smirk. "But you were incapable of starting one yourself? Or did the family not let you dirty your hands?" He leans to pick up more fallen branches before I can answer. Each of them jostles at his touch, cumbersomely wide but still light in his hands. I cannot help myself and shake my head at his collection.

The frustration at his jest rises up in my throat again and forms itself into words before I have a chance to correct them. "I got my hands plenty dirty, thank you very much." I hold myself firm, hoping he does not jump upon my choice of words with his unmistakeable need to embarrass me.

"That so?" A mischievous light glows in those eyes of his and I can feel heat shoot up my neck and spread across my face as it reddens. I am a fool for playing into such an easy trap. To my relief, he does not laugh, and nods with a sense of knowing and accomplishment. "Then you should fit in around here. Start by picking up some of the wood and carrying it back."

Shoulders pulled back, rigid from his sudden gesturing and pointing at me, and I gawk at his directions. He gives orders so casually. I do not know whether to be insulted or flattered at his manner. I can see in part why Jean keeps him as travelling companion but beyond that I am rather lost for words.

He interrupts my internal process by turning around and bluntly adding, "Oh, and best not start telling me about how well you handle wood." Pleased with himself, he returns to pile up branches and twigs into his arms. While not quite as tan as Jean's, his arms look thicker, stronger, veins running down from his elbow like the trails on squiggly gums. I feel considerably unprepared for his life I have so haphazardly chosen.

We spend the while in silence, gathering together long branches. Eren tells me to leave the old ones with brown leaves, despite my better judgement. He informs me that the kind he is carrying shall burn best, but I cannot imagine it will be as effective as he insists. There is nothing to these branches I am pulling into my arms. They scratch and bend and snap with little resistance. I assume we will not be sitting around a fire for very long.

“You ever break the law before?” Eren asks, stepping on one particularly long branch and snapping it in half. He says it so absent-mindedly that I am uncertain as to whether the question was truly meant for me. Clutching the branches to his chest and letting the leaves brush against his face, he directs an expectant stare my way.

I avoid his eyes in the wave of shame that takes me. With his question in the air, I assess the sense of pride I have always found comfort in by being a law abiding citizen. Where I am that I sit now that I sympathise with wanted men blurs the lines I once thought were clear.

Picking up his broken branches, Eren peered through the trees surrounding us. He concludes with a sniff of the fresh air, “I thought as much.” His tone holds no condescension. It is soft and thoughtful and as far away as the look in his eyes. “Well, you walk with us now.” He does not see the wood nor the trees but rather the distant thought of his that hovers on the horizon. When his eyes do return to catch my gaze, there hovers a dull glow there that I cannot quite place. His voice announces with flat intonation, “Congratulations on making it into the world of crime.”

My lips betray me, speaking the beginnings of thoughts in my mind. “I…” I trail off as I catch myself swiftly enough to prevent a verbal mishap. I do not know what it is I mean to say or want to say, yet I have Eren’s full and undivided attention with only the two of us in this wide expanse of mystery flora.

His laughter sounds harsher than the bird singing out of sight in the trees above us. Narrowing his eyes at me with a hint of curiosity and a hint of his own amusement-seeking nature, he asks the question sitting in his features, tongue dripping with jest, “What did you think you were running away off to? Fine wine and finer women?”

“No,” I immediately dismiss him, fixing the glasses on my nose. This does not surprise him. Yet to think he would think such things of me sends an unshakeable sense of repulsion through me. Though I may not know what it is that I ran away for or why I am still here, by the very hospitality of my company or my own sheer form of stubbornness, I am still here. “Neither of those.”

He has me in my uncertainty of purpose. A man born of high standing does not simply leave his comfortable and worldly possessions behind. Anyone of my status, as it were, would not find it explainable beyond a madness in my veins. Yet here I am, with no purpose, no forethought, no planning for a future, blind to whatever lies before me, and I feel free.

There is no sense of fate and need to belong. Every one of my actions feels necessary, in the sense of some sense of acceptance for what and who I am than the lofty ideals of social hierarchy and place. It seems so peculiar to me that Eren should treat me as he does one of his own. There is sense of respect for me from what I can discern. Somehow that makes me feel welcome, despite the occasional prickling of the skin down my neck at his tone, or his words, or his manner.

With my own branches in my hands, I take in the sights around us. Hill upon hill of trees with coursing paths of grey rocks and greyer dirt that makes it way beneath our feet like we might be trespassers. The sheer breathlessness of it all is joined by the crashing sound in my chest when Eren speaks up again, “I imagine it becomes hard to impress a father with children, if you have no interest in potential mothers.”

Throat dry and scratching at me, I itch under the collar of my shirt. Its pristine white cotton appears too innocent out here, so much more than the implications Eren throws at me. I do not know whether he has seen through the lies I tell myself or if he speaks from his own experiences. “Something like that,” I answer him as vaguely as possible to not press the matter any further.

Eren looks at me with a peculiar look in his eye, not at me but through me. His lips draws into a line and slowly, incredibly slowly, he bends down to place his firewood on the ground. “Shhh, do not say anything,” he commands in a hush through gritted teeth. I can swear he has seen something I have not. No swivelling on my feet can find what has caught his attention until I hear the thundering of hooves.

My mouth falls open as my eyes beg Eren for what his means. I am lost with no idea of what this crescendo approaching us could mean. Everything on Eren’s face and in the tension he holds in his body now tells me that none of this can be good. In my attempt at self-preservation, I follow his lead, dropping my branches quietly and turning my head this way and that to find the source of the noise.

It gets closer. The sound of each hoof digging into the ground drowns out the sounds of singing birds and the whispering of the leaves on the wind. All of that pleasantness is lost to the drumming of my heart in my chest. I clench my fists and close my eyes, willing it to stop for fear Eren might hear it as loud as I do.

“That lot are looking for you,” Eren whispers with hint of aggression. I flinch and snap open my eyes. His face is not staring at me as I expect, but off in the distance at the shadows of horses and men racing between trees. He hunches down, glaring at this sudden company of ours. Whoever it is that they are, it is not welcome. I fail to see the threat Eren does. I am so far beyond the borders of my world of understanding.

Eren’s green eyes positively glow when he turns his glare to me and gestures for me to join him. I try my best to gulp away the sense of danger he now emanates from every part of him. From the way he crouches, to the swift movement of his hand to call me over, and the wrinkling of concentration around his nose, no part of him appears inviting.

With a deep sigh, regretting the feeling in my gut that fights against my better judgement, I move to his side. He drags me down with him to a squatting position by a tall silver gum. Pressing his hand against its stripes of white and brown and grey, Eren asked in a hush, “You got a wife and family at home?” His voice is on the touch of angry, though not at me. “Who did you leave behind?”

Rolled strips of bark on the ground crunch beneath our feet. We hold our breaths, eyes darting to the bark of other trees in hope we have not made our location known. Gratefully, we find ourselves still in hiding, but I cannot help but gape in my confusion. I did not consider any one person wanting to pursue me with this fervour.

Words rattle in my brain, moving too fast to catch hold of them. Nothing makes much sense with the ever increasing drumming of my heartbeat in my ears. My mouth tries to form shapes to express my own confusion and fails in silence. I consider how my last words might be a vague answer about my father and suddenly the picture clears.

Despite the way the brushing of the leaves and the sounds of horses seem to mix in my ears, I manage to stammer, “My father.” I say it as if it were obvious, an easy conclusion to make despite Eren’s lack of knowledge of my person and my history. He seems content with my answer and nods slowly, his features soft despite the clenching of his jaw. This means something to him somehow. I do not understand why it might.

“Fathers want what is best for their sons,” he begins in a quiet voice. Leaning against a tree, he peers out for the group of men in pursuit. They come to a halt less than 30 feet away to discuss their actions in murmurs. He presses a finger to his lip to confirm my silence before he continues, “Fruit of their loins and all that. Even if the fruit turns sour.” Though we cannot hear their voices, Eren pulls a handgun from his pocket in one slow fluid motion.

I whisper back, confused by his choice of words, “What?” His eyes glare me into silence with a ferocity I have never seen in eyes before. He pulls another gun from his other pocket and presses it against my hands insistently. “I have never…” Hissing at me, he pushes the cool feel of the metal into my hand. Without another word, I take it and with it realise I have taken another step I cannot take back.

This is not where I expected my life to lead. My father insisted on schooling, on business and etiquette, on marrying a nice daughter of a close friend of his. Everything should have gone as expected and I have an exceptional list of expectations placed upon me. A gun clenched in my hand breaks all my former conceptions of how I would see them come to pass.

“Do you think they will hurt us?” I ask the question we both already know the answer too. The men dismount from their horses and yell out encouragements to each other. Their words are indistinct but it is never more clear than when the sunlight hits the barrels of their rifles. The impending clash that plays out in my mind makes my mouth as dry as the ground we stand upon.

Eren refuses to answer me. Whether for lack of answer or kindness in the face of danger, he distracts me with more instructions. “Hide. Do not move. Stay down.” I notice the scars down his arm from scrapes and burns. His skin is less tanned than Jean’s and so much more marked by incidents I can only presume were dangerous. The scars blur when he begins to walk away. “I shall try take a few out and you - “

I catch him by the arm and realise my grip would be nothing to him. “You are not going to kill them, are you?” My own skin is unmarked and sickly pale next to his from years upon years of what I always thought was safe and comfortable shelter. He can pull away from me at any point but he waits with a raised brow and patient gaze.

Refusing to answer me again, he takes a deep breath and asks instead, “Do you recognise anyone? Is one of them your father?” There is something so terrifying in the calmness in his voice. Once again I sense that kindness in the way he waits for me. I wonder how much of it is his choice, how much of it is in respect to Jean, and whether he would be so kind if Jean had not brought me along with them.

I shake my head and follow his directions, hiding behind a large gum that shields me from the view of our pursuers. Its bark is smooth against my hand and reminds me of the lacquered wood of home. Yet here I am with a gun in my hand, my head down, and a strange man with a strange sense of kindness preventing these men from taking me back to the life I left mere hours ago.

It hits me like a punch in the ribs and just as painful, pushing the air of my lungs and sending a lightness to the brain. I have left everything behind. There is no going back now, not after I was seen walking off to talk to Jean alone, not after I was seen leaving with them, not now that I have a gun in my hand and I am contemplating defending my freedom. There is something I want out here, a reason I want to stay, but I cannot quite narrow it down to anything more specific than curiosity. Thus I ignore the nagging questions in my mind that doubt whether curiosity is a good reason to throw away a different life.

Off to my right a gun goes off. It is the loudest thing I think I have ever heard. Loud shouts follow and I sink down to the ground. My glasses sit slightly lopsided on my nose but I dare not fix them. I freeze in place at the thought of needing to defend myself if that sound means Eren is gone. Every part of me wants to find Jean, be sure that he is safe, or, in more likelihood, have him save me.

For all my wishes, I cannot speak up in this clamour of yelling and firearms and bring all of it down upon myself. I wallow in a cloud of my own confused cowardice, chastising myself for bringing myself to a place where I am perhaps the most useless I have ever been.

“Jean,” I let his name escape my word as a wish. It disappears in the confusion of more yelling and gunshots off to my left. Leaves shake violently as stranger figures rush through the bush around me. Fast footsteps approach at an alarming speed and I throw up my hand in defense, fumbling around with the gun in my other. I curse myself under my breath for not having it ready in my hand to shoot.

It nearly falls from my hand but I catch it, slotting my finger into place over the trigger. It shakes as much as my breath in the confusion and I raise it towards the sound approaching me. I do not know whether to scream or to cry or close my eyes and shoot, but despite the terror sitting in my chest I cannot shoot a man blindly. I am uncertain if I can ever shoot a man at all.

The figure stumbles through the trees in a blur of shadow and leaves caught in their sprint. I threaten them with my gun as a trembling mess of a man ready to beg for mercy if it would mean my life. I feel pitiful on the ground. My eyes squint, hoping to blur the world in my vision if it means not seeing the action I may need to take. It is no less terrifying when I hold the gun point at the blur that comes my way, but it shoots past me, grabs my gun, and pushes me against the gum behind me.

"What are you doing?" Jean's familiar voice yells at me. Overcome by relief and the lurch of realisation in my stomach at my actions, I resist weeping openly at this moment of confusion. He simply pats my shoulder, turning to peer around us, while I stare hopelessly at the tension in his shoulders. He is no more comfortable than I am.

His steady hand continues holding me, squeezing with every turn of his head as if it releases tension. I hope in some part he repeats the action to be sure I am still present. With him here I feel no need to leave unless by his guide. All in all, that is my best and perhaps only course of action.

He secures my gun in his hand. It fits like it has always meant to be there and I am relieved to not carry that burden in the form of metal again. Jean does not hand it back to me, does not offer me another, and leans close to my side to murmur in my ear, "They are firing at us. We have taken down three of their men so far."

My stomach and chest tighten. I do not know where one begins and the other ends with this tension that I feel. "Please tell me you did not kill them..." I beg him with my eyes. Jean cannot be another one of the criminal horde that kill on sight and allow the families of working men to wither in the colony. He is better than that, surely.

Shaking his head, he dismisses my concern. "Knocked out. Not dead." If not for my intense focus on his face, I might have missed those words. Gunshots still ring out from above us. "With me," he commands, letting his hand run down my arm to grab me by my hand. I swear I forgot how coarse his hands feel and how they feel like safety when his fingers curl around my own with a firm grasp.

I cling to his hand like it is my only salvation. Perhaps it is out here. I have no skills, no sense of direction, and no idea what I should do to save myself when my life depends on it. A gun is as much of a foreign object in my hand as I am here. I am more of a burden and a liability to the man who drags me after him than I am worth in staying. I do not understand why he would ever want me as company.

Another figure in the distance falls to the ground in a large grunt. I squeeze Jean's hand in reflex. He chuckles under his breath. "Eren's handiwork." His confidence in Eren perplexes me even now. There is a history there that I can never compete with, but I remind myself that it is my hand that Jean holds. "You and I are going to head back to the river."

Nodding in agreement, I follow him. Only the sky above seems to lead us to our horses and the clearing where our belongings lay. The water of the creek shimmers silver in the sunlight, concealing its hidden depth. For a moment I believe that I cannot see anything more beautiful than this. All I wish is to throw myself into its cool depths and surface when the world is calmer.

"Master Bodt!" I catch my breath at sound of my name, finding myself responding to the call with a turn of my head. The eyes of the young stable boy meet mine. He can be no more than just of age, barely a few years younger than me. We stare at each other, lost in each of our own uncertainties. He does not know whether I pose a threat while I do not know what he thinks of me. I fear this young boy's perceptions of me will shatter at the sight of me hand in hand with an outlaw. Yet here I am.

Before I can answer, Eren sneaks into the clearing and looms up behind the boy with a hand raised. I fear for the boy's life when he draws close and I feel my features distort to reveal my concern. The stable boy's eyes grow wide at the sight of my face and freeze at the firm clasp Eren takes of his shoulder. I cannot hear what Eren leans forward to whisper in the ear of the boy. He simply nods, quickly and repetitively, more than anyone would ever need to nod, and when Eren lets go of his shoulder, he sprints for the town, scrambling over rocks like a fox running from the hunt.

Catching my curious glance, Eren shrugs, dismissing my concerns as if worries never heavily weighed upon his shoulders. He sinks to the ground and leans against a tree. With a snort he pulls his hat over his eyes and calls out, "They should be out long enough for my nap. You two do as you please, but no waking me."

Jean laughs and salutes him. "You have my word." His hand squeezes mine once again. In the quiet of the clearing, I can hear my heart still racing. My breath barely catches up with it and Jean tilts his head in concern. He lets my hand fall from his and I can still feel the warmth of his hand on my skin. It feels bare without his touch.

I watch him in silent wonder. Despite the complete chaos of moments before, Jean stands here without stress in his shoulders or a weight on his back. There is nothing beyond this moment that he carries with him. His chest rises and falls with a remarkable, admirable steadiness that I wish I could attain. I cannot fathom how he manages out here, like this, when the Victorian police and many of their supporters would have him locked away.

I grow more curious at how he manages to let the struggles that he has faced wash off his skin like the dirt that coats his skin. There is an art to it, I swear down to my chest. Something I doubt I shall ever possess. Yet despite all of this, I believe he sees it least of all. 

Jean throws his hat aside and nudges the water by his feet with a toe. "It looks clean enough." He throws a glance over his shoulder at me. "Fancy a dip?" I have to stop myself from choking. His smile appears radiant in the shadows of the trees. I wonder if I have seen him smile like this before or I was merely blinded by it the last time.

I shake myself from my smile-induced haze. "In that?" I take hesitant steps forward and lift my chin to peer into the water. It appears as cool and clear as water should, but I do not trust depths I cannot measure. My lips betray my worry, forming a thin line on my face.

Shrugging with a small grunt, Jean scratches at his beard. It is such a casual action that I forget I can speak for a moment. He looks like he belongs here. "There ought to be a few eels but they should leave your lily-white skin alone. I taste better." He winks at me and begins to undress, shrugging off his jacket it and throwing it over a low-hanging branch.

I avert my eyes instantly. I feel an odd wash of embarrassment that I did not consider exactly what his offer meant. Though often in the company of men, I have scarce seen any other body than my own and certainly not so publicly or in this manner. I search my mind for whatever training I have had for such an instance, but come up short with no help that my upbringing can offer. I had learned more about cutlery than bathing decorum. I suppose no one would have suspected I would need it.

I bite my lip and risk another look. Jean seems completely at ease with me watching him undress. I do not know whether to keep watching or to join him. The temptation of either seems to be the nightmares of the Catholic Church and heavens know my great aunt would have a word with me about the sheer notions I am considering.

Jean unbuttons his shirt with a whistle. At first, he calls up at the birds above them. Their black and white features cast out against the green of the leaves up there. They listen and hop from branch to branch before taking off with a gust of the wind. Even they seem more at ease with Jean's casual abandon than I.

Turning to another song, he throws his shirt aside like a rag. The bare skin beneath his shirt is just as tanned as the rest of him. I wonder how hard and how long he had to have worked to have been so kissed by the sun and have muscles that ripple like the surface of the creek he will bathe in. No matter the time or the work or the amount of sweat and dirt covering his skin, I cannot imagine anything different, nor I doubt I ever will.

"If you would like to spend another day smelling of sweat and dirt, by all means stand there," Jean gestures towards me and breaks my trailing stare down his spine. He fiddles with his belt and I can all but gulp at how much he plans to reveal. "I suppose your lot have more privacy than this." His belt thumps to the pebbles by the water's edge and he slides off his boots without a moment's hesitation. His bare feet step with caution across the rocky ground.

Somehow I find my voice in the dry throat and pooling saliva that make the beginning of speech so difficult. "That... that is true. I have not exposed myself as much as..." I pause, caught off-guard by Jean dropping his slacks to his ankles. I adjust my glasses out of habit, though I am sure part of me wants to clear the image I see.

Jean stands there in nothing more than his underwear. His legs, I note, are not much lighter than his arms. "For your sake I shall keep these on," Jean smiles with a hint of cheek. I do not know if he intends on embarrassing me further when he pats his hand lightly over his underwear, but I can feel my face turning pink regardless of anything further he might say or do. There is no etiquette manual for something like this, or at the very least I have never come across it.

I quickly fumble with my jacket, taking Jean's lead in throwing it aside, before I begin with my shirt buttons. I pray he does not see the nervous stutter in my fingers as I try my best to not look shaken by his brazenness. My voice, thankfully, does not quiver. "I am not used to baring myself so publicly." 

The excuse seems to sate him. He tests the water with a toe and upon finding it pleasing, steps in to be sure. "I shall spare you further embarrassment," he says without turning before removing his underwear in a swift motion and tossing it aside. In my shock I just catch a glimpse where his toned legs meets his back before he slips into the water with a splash.

Settled in the water, he leans back against the bank and lets his eyes close. "I am an honest man, Marco. I shall not open my eyes until you sit across from me." He smiles all the same when he relaxes. The cheek of him never fails to send a warm flush through me.

My belt is easier to undo when I step forward. His closed eyes give me the sense of security I need. My boots follow, sliding off my feet with a firm grip and landing awkwardly by the water. Watching Jean with a sense of shame and the small exciting thrill of fear, I remove my shirt and place it down by my boots. I feel so exposed and pale in the sunlight.

Jean takes a deep breath and I follow in kind. My fingers work to take down my slacks, revealing more lily-white to the trees and the birds. My eyes never leave Jean's face when I let them drop to the ground. True to his word he never opens them. My heart beats a little harder.

"Comfortable?" Jean asks, raising his eyebrows. "We do not have long." Spurred by his own words, he dips his head below the surface to run water through his hair. He runs his hands across his arms, rinsing off the dirt from their travels. "I can only wash what I can see, Marco, and you are taking your time."

I nod, forgetting he cannot see me. "Of course." I start to step into the water, fighting against the nervous jitter in my stomach. It feels as cool and refreshing as I hoped. It is not the warm baths of home, but it will mean cleanliness regardless.

"I suggest you remove everything if you plan on wearing dry clothes later," Jean suggests with a nod. Though I check, he does not smirk and continues to wait for me to delve into the water across from him.

I gulp down the dryness in my throat and do as he suggests, swiftly adding my underwear to the pile. He has logic to it, of course, but this level of exposure feels almost sinful. I question whether he says this for his own amusement or my benefit. I swallow away the shame and sink into the water opposite him, hoping the water is not so clear so he may see all of me.

His eyes open, and despite my expectations, whether fearful or hopeful, he looks only at my face above the water. "You certainly are as white as a lily." He smiles and laughs through his nose with a soft shake of his head. His attention turns to the dirt on his body, rubbing across every muscle and washing it clean. "How does it feel?"

I watch as he throws the water over his face and rubs at his beard. The more dirt he removes, the more he seems to reveal. I catch myself smiling but let the expression pass through the filter. Both of us naked, washing ourselves free from dirt, makes a look and a smile seem incredibly less scandalous. 

"Freeing.” I answer in the utmost honesty. “It feels freeing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this and want to reblog it on Tumblr, you can find the Tumblr post [here](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/141769676562/synonymous-with-outlaw-chapter-2).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


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